Nadya gets straight - Nadya gets lonely part ii

 ...This is not to say that I am blame-free, as for many years I decided that living like a rock star was the best way to go--seeing as I had failed to legitimately become one--and that getting shitfaced and having loads of carefree sex was a worthwhile lifestyle to pursue. I had fun, I most certainly did, but ending up in a Costa Rican hospital with the beginnings of alcoholic hepatitis was not something I had ever foreseen despite my unspeakable, shameful, lethal, eventually-drinking-on-the-job habit. By the time I returned to Canada and admitted myself to the live-in detox centre, I felt like a used-up whore and a drunk, and that’s because I kind of was.

 So: no sex for me. Not for a solid year.

 ...until the five-month itch set in and I realized that getting laid was paramount to my survival. Just once. Just one good session of solid boinking would right the wrongs, and I could continue on with my journey of newfound sobriety, adapting to a world that I wasn’t yet sure how to navigate in an entirely lucid, emotionally-haywire state. I had gone from nonstop shagging across several continents to eating sacks of wine gums by myself every night in a rent-controlled Victoria apartment. I was suffering. Self-love wasn’t doing the trick; I needed a man pressed on top of me, drilling me, kissing me, muttering to me, pulling my hair, and then shuffling off back to his house after awkwardly putting his pants back on. It didn’t have to be someone I knew or liked; in fact, itcouldn’t be someone I knew or liked. It had to be a random guy that I had no past with, who was entirely unconnected to my network of acquaintances, and who could simply come in and out of my life, in a manner of speaking....

...continued tomorrow....